Wednesday, 14 January 2015

He was back in a moment
with Bart’s diary. “I haven’t finished
it, grand, but I’d like you to read it. Have
some tissues ready. It’ll make you cry.” His own voice was a bit ragged. “You see, I never realised how privileged we
were. I mean I knew about everything but
it was only when I met Brent and then Key and Luigi and Eleanor that I saw how
much I had. Brent especially. I don’t need it all. So I want to do good with it. Make the world a better place.”

Lucasta felt tears coming.

“What’s wrong, grandam?”

“Nothing. Just.
Oh Jason…..”

“I’ll come and see you
often in England,” he said. “And we can
email every day.”

“It’s not that, it’s just,
oh I am such a silly old woman!”

“No you aren’t. Silly!”

They laughed together.

“It’s just I know you’ll
never forget Brent how could you because love is so strong and survives so much
but I’m so glad you’re happier now Jason dear and so if that’s because of Australia
I’m glad you’re here so wonderful but I do hope you’ll come and visit often.”

Friday, 9 January 2015

“I’m going to do something
with my money, grandam.” He looked away, absently wiping crumbs from the
counter. “I’m going to set up a trust
for children or teenagers who’re thrown out of their home by their parents for
being gay or effeminate or just different.”

She knew at once what he
was telling her. “I wondered whether you’d
be coming back to England,” she said.

“Not to live.” He shook his head. “That’s why I’ve decided to tell them. They’re—I don’t want any lies. And I want to do something good in the
world. Make a difference. I don’t just want to be a drone, a parasite. You see, with Brent I … scr—failed.” He was silent for a few heartbeats. “It won’t be just my money. I’ll register a charity and raise funds. Use my money—and my name—to raise more
money. Make a splash.”

Tuesday, 6 January 2015

His grandmother was in the
kitchen, making toast to fill the toast rack.
The kitchen smelled warm and homely.
The kettle was starting its hum as the water in it heated up. He went over to her and kissed her. She had a slightly stuffy sour close old-woman
smell, but he didn’t mind.

“Morning, grandam.”

“Morning Jason dear such a
lovely morning but getting chilly now one always forgets that the seasons are
back to front here but I love autumn it’s my favourite season like champagne or
maybe sauterne and all the leaves.”

He smiled at her, filled
with love, and finding even her disjointed chatter wonderful.

“I’m sorry about that
blunder last night.” She was unusually
direct.

He shook his head.

“Not to worry. I think I’m going to tell them. I trust them, and they trust me.” He smiled at her. “So it’s all right.”

“Yes but still sometimes I
do ramble on and then I let things slip and I was enjoying myself so much.”

Friday, 2 January 2015

When Jason woke in the
morning, the first thought that came into his head was his plan to set up a trust
to help gay kids who’d been made homeless by homophobic parents. He lay in bed, the warmth welcome on this
chilly late autumn morning. I want to
stay here, he thought. In
Australia. This is where my heart
is. England will always be about Brent,
about how I and all my arrogant “friends” drove him to kill himself. This country, this city is my home now. I feel at home now in just a few months. People have made me welcome. Eleanor, Keith, Luigi, Graeme, Esmé. People have taken me into their hearts. I want to stay. Which means I need to extend my visa. Do I
have to tell them about me? Can’t I keep
it a secret?

Thursday, 1 January 2015

The Killer was tortured by
dreams about sex. Sex with beautiful
boys and handsome young men. Sex with
Father McAlister. Approval. Love.
Belonging. Even when it hurt, he
had someone to love, with Father. Until
the end.

I’m not gay, he screamed
in his dreams. I’m not. But what he dreamed about was love with men,
of being held safe and warm in a man’s arms. Of a man inside him stroking him
to ecstasy. Of the more sinister but much sharper pleasure of killing. Sluts.
They deserved to die. God was
with him. But in his dreams he was in
vast echoing rooms and God’s voice was Father McAlister’s, and there was no
approval or love in it. And he was
utterly, utterly alone.